


Before Noon

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 11:57:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13294386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: “You’re disgusting,” says Taiga, but there’s so much damn affection in the way he says it, completely naked and obvious, that would have at one point taken Shougo aback, and as it is he suddenly feels overexposed.





	Before Noon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justlikeswitchblades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/gifts).



> the netflix & chill to [after midnight](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/devils_shuu/works/11340012)'s pizza & plough
> 
> takes place after 'home' and before 'long slow road'

Shougo bites his lip, and the broken skin sticks under his front teeth. He half-swears, but the sound comes out muffled in the wind. He’d forgotten something before leaving the apartment; he’d done all his skincare shit (double in the winter, especially when Taiga always has to turn up the heat) and remembered an extra pair of socks (sent a snapchat to Taiga, too) and he has his phone and his wallet. It’s too late to turn back now, straight into the wind, more bitter than Shougo’s been at his lowest.

It’s a shit day to take a walk, but he’s got all this nervous energy from staying inside, waiting on his agent to hammer things out with team management again, waiting for the call or the text that just fucking says whether they’re ready to have him back and end this contract holdout or not yet. Plenty of people have lost money betting against him; he’s read it on the internet (thanks to his brother forwarding him the goddamn articles). They should know better than to underestimate how stubborn he is, how much he can sink his heels into this dirty kind of slush. He only wants to play for the Raptors, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to let them shortchange him. He’ll make his money in endorsements, play international tournaments, do hockey or something if he has to, but he’s not going to play basketball on terms that aren’t his. He’ll hold out all season, no matter who says it’s in his worst interests; it’s not like he’s got nowhere to be, nothing else to do, nothing to gain from waiting longer.

Shougo shoves his gloved hands deeper in his pockets. There’s a hole in one, and his thumb is rubbing against the knit of his sweater instead of the thin material of the pocket. He’ll fix it, at some point, if he remembers. At least his wallet’s in the other pocket, keys and phone in his jeans. He squares his shoulders and balls his hands into fists. An avenue or two away, a train rolls by, and it’s more surprising that Shougo’s noticed it than the sound itself. He’s still a little homesick for the high rise apartment insulated from the sounds of public transit gathering dust in Toronto, the other side of this set of lakes, a little further than that sounds. The one good thing that’s come out of all this (besides the eventual payday) is getting to be with Taiga, even if it means he’s playing reluctant house-husband or stuck by himself in a city that’s still a bit unfamiliar. But he’s come to establish patterns here, even if he’s not laying down roots longer than the worst he lets his hair get. Glances up to check street corners for lights and cars, face to the slush on the ground refrozen several times over the rest of the time, following the turns and twists, over the mostly-frozen river, blocks and blocks.

He’d placed his order right at opening but his food’s still hot; the woman behind the counter is someone he doesn’t recognize and she doesn’t appear to recognize him. Maybe it’s harder, with the scarf and coat covering his tattoos and the Bulls beanie he’d borrowed from Taiga’s closet over his head. Maybe it’s because it’s not even half past eleven; she does not look awake. He grabs the sack of grilled cheese, two for him and five for Taiga (he’d tease more, but Taiga’s burning all those extra calories playing against people other than him, and even though that’s normal it makes Shougo feel some kind of weird way—this is the dumbest kind of jealousy, and he hates it).

The train back comes right away; several seats away from him a woman clutches a cigarette but she can’t be the first one in here today. It’s too cold to smoke outside; he’s glad he doesn’t still do it—hasn’t done it since high school. It’s not something he’s particularly nostalgic for; his hands are busy, anyway, one holding the food and the other stiff, uncurling in his pocket. He’d gotten on at the wrong end of the platform again; at least the station is relatively warm as he pulls the beanie down over his ears and makes his way up the stairs, trying to ignore the lack of feeling in his smallest toes.

Taiga’s home when he gets there, back from practice already, fresh from the shower, wearing Shougo’s sweatpants with the waistband rolled won under the hem of his t-shirt, and even in his state of half-frozen Shougo can appreciate it.

Taiga wrinkles his nose when he leans in for a kiss. “You smell like cigarettes.”

“Subway,” says Shougo. “Hey, the food’s still hot.”

So’s Taiga’s mouth; so are his hands, stuttering against Shougo’s cold face (he can’t even properly feel them, scowling as he kicks off his boots onto the spread-out newspaper by the door).

“Could have called me; I’d have picked you up.”

“Totally out of your way,” Shougo says.

He suddenly feels weary, like he wants to sink into Taiga’s arms and get fed pieces of grilled cheese, some fries mixed in, stuffed in between the bread. His coat’s still half-zipped but he wraps his arms around Taiga and buries his face in Taiga’s neck, pressing a half-kiss to Taiga's skin with his chapped lips.

“Hey,” Taiga’s voice goes softer. “Shou. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Shougo, standing back up. “Food. Bed.”

“Not at once,” says Taiga, but he’ll cave (they need to change the sheets; they’d taken all the damn blankets out of the living room the other day and it’s too much of a hassle to bring them back in).

In the bedroom, Shougo situates himself under the down comforter, enough room for Taiga to squeeze in next to him, the greasy food bag next to him on the pillow.

“You’re disgusting,” says Taiga, but there’s so much damn affection in the way he says it, completely naked and obvious, that would have at one point taken Shougo aback, and as it is he suddenly feels overexposed.

“Feed me,” he says, grabbing the remote from the end table and turning on the TV.

“Feed yourself,” says Taiga. “Fuck, no, _Supernatural­_ —does Tatsuya still have the password to this?”

Shougo cracks one eye open; the TV’s defaulted to Netflix, filled up with a show neither he nor Taiga watches. “Did you change it?”

“No.”

“Can’t you create separate sub-accounts?” says Shougo. “Anyway, I’m hungry. Taiga.”

Taiga is too busy with the remote; Shougo sighs and rolls over, reaching a hand under Taiga’s shirt.

“Fuck! Your hand’s cold.”

Taiga’s successfully found some documentary on the American Civil War that he loves; Shougo shuts his eyes again and brushes his thumb over Taiga’s hip. Taiga sighs.

“Any word from your agent?”

“Nah,” says Shougo. “She’s probably finding some way to break it to me.”

Taiga’s hand strokes Shougo’s hair; it’s just long enough for him to thread his fingers through and Shougo sighs. This always feels fucking good, worth the extra shit he has to do to get his hair to behave.

“I know you don’t want to, but you could stay here. We need more guys like you, guys who create space; I’d make them pay you.”

“Nepotism,” says Shougo.

“Well, yeah,” says Taiga. “I’d like to be able to play on the same team as my husband for more than just one-offs here and there.”

The way he says it makes Shougo feel warmer, in a way that has nothing to do with the comforter or the fucking cosmic radiation coming off of Taiga’s body that he’s finally not too numb to feel.

“There’s a gay joke somewhere in there,” says Shougo.

“Shou,” says Taiga, but Shougo can feel the smile in the way Taiga says his name more than he can even hear it.

“Hey,” says Shougo, rolling over to look up at Taiga (not a bad angle, never is) and slipping his fingers through Taiga’s. “I appreciate it. Really, Taiga.”

His pinky catches on Taiga’s ring; Shougo closes his eyes again. He doesn’t see Taiga leaning down, only feels his breath and then his mouth pressed against Shougo’s lips. Shougo squeezes Taiga’s hand and Taiga breaks the kiss.

“Fuck, my back.”

“Get down here,” says Shougo.

The radiator hisses; Taiga scoots down, moving the bag of food off the bed. Cold fries aren’t Shougo’s favorite, even drenched in dressing and cheese, but this is more important than food right now. Someone on the TV screen is talking in a hoarse voice about cannons; Shougo drags his foot up Taiga’s leg and shifts his weight, trying to lift himself on top of Taiga.

“You’re heavy,” says Taiga.

“Weaksauce,” says Shougo. “Thought you did sports or something.”

Taiga clicks his tongue; Shougo lifts himself off of Taiga, balancing his weight on his hands against the sheets. Taiga’s grinning at him, and Shougo takes his damn time leaning in to kiss him, finally getting Taiga to make a noise.

“Come on.”

“Patience.”

Shougo eases himself back down on top of Taiga, and a few seconds later Taiga nudges him. It’s a precursor to rolling them both over, bringing Taiga back on top. He’s kind of heavy, but it’s a good kind of heavy, the weight of Taiga solid and warm on top of him, their legs tangled together, his hand up under Taiga’s shirt rubbing his back but inching downward towards the waistband of his sweatpants. It won’t hurt to delay going home until Taiga’s next road trip at least, not when he’s got all this here in Chicago.

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to read more about contract standoffs, [here](http://bleacherreport.com/articles/2573085-20-infamous-sports-contract-holdouts-who-won)'s something from br.
> 
> i still can't believe this is my first haikaga focused fic for this au


End file.
